Slewfoot

by Brom

  “Hello, I am here,” she said, and when she did, their song grew louder.

  She called to them: the cicadas, the moths, the beetles and fireflies, the little gnats and mosquitoes, the thousands and thousands of little mosquitoes. And they responded, their tiny voices swelling, coming together like a song, filling the woods with their melody as they flew to her, swarming and swirling together like a growing storm cloud.

  * * *

  Another insect, some kind of beetle, hit Captain Moore in the eye, then something flew into his mouth. He spat. “So many damn bugs this night,” he said, all but shouting to be heard over the din of cicadas and locusts. He’d never heard such a racket.

  “There!” Richard shouted. “Someone is over there.”

  The captain looked, tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It looked like a fish, a flying fish. He raised his rifle and another bug hit his face, another, then another. Something small flew into his eye. “Gah!” he snarled, trying to wipe his eyes clear. The fish was gone.

  Richard let out a cry, and the captain saw that all the men were plagued by the insects, wiping their faces and eyes as they stumbled along. What is going on? he wondered.

  Captain Moore saw her, the witch, just a glimpse. Was she smiling? “There!” he shouted. “She’s just there.” He took off after her, the men following. Then a great cloud of smoke rolled over them, engulfing them. Only, he too quickly realized, it wasn’t smoke, but mosquitoes, thousands upon thousands of mosquitoes. They set upon him, driving into his eyes, his ears, his nose. He couldn’t breathe without inhaling them. He screamed, as did the others, and when he did, they entered his mouth. He stumbled, dropped his musket, wiping his eyes, choking and spitting out a soggy clump of squirming mosquitoes.

  Someone bumped into him, one of his guards, impossible to tell who, the man’s face a mask of swarming insects. The man dashed past, clawing at his eyes, trying to rake the bugs away. Then she was there, just a blurry shape, but he knew it was her, the witch. She struck the guard, a flash of her blade, and the guard spun, clutching his throat, and fell to the ground.

  Captain Moore pulled his pistol from his belt and fired, the blast lighting up the scene for a mere second, but long enough for the captain to see that he’d missed his mark, to see that two of the men were cut wide open, to see the witch dash away, agile and fleet as some deer.

  Someone grabbed him; he cried out, tried to strike them with his pistol. “Stop,” the person cried. It was the sheriff. “We must go!” the man shouted, then fled. The captain tried to follow, but lost sight of the sheriff almost immediately.

  Captain Moore stumbled along in what he hoped was the right direction, trying to reload his pistol as he went, trying to do so by touch alone. He could actually feel the mosquitoes squirming in his eyes, in his nose and ears. Their incessant high-pitched buzzing drowning out all other sounds, as though they were screaming just at him. He tripped over a log, or stone, or who knew what, fumbled his pistol, dropping the shot. He didn’t bother to look for it, just pressed back to his feet. Then, all at once, the bugs let up, drifting away. He could see the stable burning in the distance. “Oh, Lord. Thank you! God, Jesus. Thank you!”

  He started forward, but someone—something—was there, a blurry shape in his path. He wiped frantically at his eyes.

  The something spoke. “I would like to offer you a choice. A quick, merciful death, or a slow … bad death.”

  His blood went cold. It was her, the witch. He could just make her out in the light of the flames. She stood holding a cutlass, her teeth bared.

  “Witch!” Captain Moore cried, and snatched out his knife, but she was fast, moving in, slicing his wrist, all but severing his hand. He cried out, dropping his blade.

  “A slow death then,” she said, and slashed him across the stomach.

  Searing pain spread through the captain’s gut. He let out a cry, clutching at the wound, then screamed when he felt his innards, his very intestines, spilling out in a warm gush into his hands.

  “Oh, God! Jesus Christ!” Captain Moore wailed, and crumpled to the ground.

  She grinned at him. “That should take a while. Do you not agree?”

  And somewhere in his intense agony, her words got through to him. He knew then that she wasn’t going to finish him. And he’d seen enough gut wounds in his day to know it was his end, only it might take days, but he would die, he would most certainly die, and in the worst kind of pain.

  A raven flew in and perched on the witch’s shoulder, then a fish, just floating there next to her, all watching him moaning and wailing and rolling in the stink of his own foul bowels.

  The witch turned and walked away, and when she did, the bugs returned, setting to the captain, crawling beneath his clothes, into his eyes, his nose, his ears, into the deep wound across his stomach, squirming their way into the stinking pile of his intestines, biting and stinging and pinching. His wails turned to screams, to shrieks, screeching until he could screech no more.

  * * *

  Abitha saw Sheriff Pitkin engulfed in a cloud of mosquitoes, his arm across his face, his hand out, staggering blindly through the trees. His weapons were gone, as were his hat and one of his boots.

  Abitha spoke to the insects, asked them to return to their night, and they did.

  She stepped up to the sheriff. He sensed her and frantically wiped his eyes.

  Abitha set her blade against his neck and he froze.

  “Thank you for the biscuits and tea,” she said. “That were kind of you.”

  He looked at her, his eyes bleary with tears and bugs.

  “What?”

  “Do not follow me,” she said. “If you follow me, I will kill you.”

  She left him there and headed back toward the village. She strolled past the stable; it was fully engulfed in flames, great clouds of smoke billowing skyward, the fire lighting up the entire village in its eerie red glow.

  There were about a dozen people milling about, many holding buckets of water, probably in hopes of saving their stores of feed.

  It is far too late for that, Abitha thought. You’ll soon know what it is to be hungry this winter.

  They saw her and she smiled at them, and when she did, they froze, their faces full of bewilderment and horror. Then she stomped her foot and hissed, laughing as they fled in terror. Abitha continued on, heading into the village, walking boldly down the main street, heading for Wallace’s homestead.

  At some point she noticed she was injured, a long slash along her arm. It must’ve been one of the guards. There was pain, but not like she would’ve thought from such a wound. She noticed something else: her feet, they kept changing. No longer feet at all now, but hooves. Abitha lifted her skirt and saw her legs; they too were changing, somewhat goatlike, with a soft coat of fur, giving a light spring to her step. She wondered if Samson’s blood was turning her into something like him. She touched her head, and yes, sure enough, two bumps were sprouting there that she suspected would soon turn into horns. And what do you think of that? Abitha asked herself. “I think it is wonderful.”

  She glanced around for Samson; they’d become separated in the woods. She didn’t see him but knew he wasn’t far. She spotted a man in the stocks, there in the village commons. It was Reverend Carter.

  She approached and he lifted his head, looked her up and down. “Abitha?”

  “Abitha is dead. I am the witch.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  His clothes were torn and filthy, his face gaunt and haggard, covered in dark bruises, a nasty wound across his forehead. His eyes were unbearably sad. He cleared his throat. “Pray tell then. Is it true that they did crush her, my Sarah, and that she did confess?”

  “Reverend, I am sorry. But yes, it is true.”

  He nodded, looking pained.

  “Do not dare judge her harshly, Reverend. Few have ever borne so much suffering as did she. It was only for her daughter that she gave in. It was love, not pain, that broke her.
”

  He looked past her, his eyes going wide. “Is … is that the Devil?” He opened his mouth to say more but uttered not a sound.

  Samson walked up and stood next to Abitha.

  “Aye,” Abitha said. “He set me free.”

  Reverend Carter just stared, unblinking, his mouth agape.

  Abitha lifted her blade and chopped into the plank of the stock, hacked it once, twice, and on the third strike, the wood gave way. She kicked it loose, freeing the reverend.

  The reverend seemed to barely notice, just continued to stare at Samson.

  “I hope there is something left for you in this life,” Abitha said, and turned and headed away.

  Abitha took the south road out of the village, along the river, at first walking, but as she grew accustomed to her new feet and legs, she began to trot; soon she was galloping down the road. And for a moment, she forgot about her anger, her venom, of her need to claw Wallace’s eyes out, and just enjoyed the simple pleasure of the warm wind in her hair, the song of the night, and the beauty of the moonlight bathing all in its warm autumn glow.

  She arrived at Wallace’s homestead in short order, it being only about a mile from town. When Samson finally caught up, she could see he was still limping, but not so bad as before.

  “Your wounds,” she said. “Are they better?”

  He nodded. “Yes, a little.”

  She glanced at the slash on her arm. It was beginning to heal.

  Samson inspected it as well. “You are not immortal by any means, Abitha. But my blood is potent, and if you are careful, you could live a very long time, perhaps even a few centuries.” He looked up toward Wallace’s cabin. “Are you sure you want to risk that?”

  She followed his eyes, saw a shape moving around inside and forgot about the moon, the wind, living for hundreds of years. Her pupils dilated and she saw only red.

  CHAPTER 15

  Wallace concluded grace, and his family commenced to eat. It was just his wife and daughter tonight, as his son was away visiting Helen and her family.

  “We are truly blessed,” his wife, Anne, said, looking over the bounty of food before them.

  Wallace nodded as he forked a large portion of goat meat onto his plate. He took a scoop of beans, taking a moment to savor the aroma of honey wafting up from them, then took a bite of the meat and began to chew. The meat was succulent.

  Wallace glanced at all the honey lining the shelves, at the food before him. Edward’s honey, Edward’s goat, Edward’s corn, he thought, and no matter how he tried he couldn’t help seeing his father’s stern, judging face. Do you not think I would trade it all to have Edward back, Papa? I stopped the witch, I saved Sutton from the very Devil, that is why I’ve reaped these prizes. Was it not you, Papa, who always told me that God rewarded the righteous?

  “Father,” Charity called, and when he didn’t answer, she said it again, louder and more forcefully. “Father!”

  He looked at her crossly, annoyed to be pulled so rudely from his thoughts. She seemed a different person this night, seemed to think her position elevated to that of an equal, perhaps more. Evidently the recognition and praise, the status she’d received from the magistrate for her testimony, going to her head. She just needs to be reminded of her place, he thought, yet found himself oddly cautious. And why was that? He knew why. Because she’d been so convincing at court, how easily she’d played the part, saying and doing whatever was needed to sway the jury against Abitha. Why, even Wallace found himself believing at times. What then, if she turned that tongue on him, especially after all the accusations Abitha had spewed?

  “Father, what is that racket?” she demanded.

  “Lower your voice, child,” Wallace said, striving to keep his tone calm. “It is not your place to speak to me in such a manner.”

  Charity scowled at him. “Do you not hear it?”

  “I said lower your voice. This is my house and you will show me the proper respect. Do you understand?” But then Wallace did hear it; it sounded like the night bugs had all gone insane, and their incessant screeching was getting into his head, making it difficult to control his temper.

  Charity rolled her eyes. “I but asked a simple question.”

  Wallace started to give her a proper reprimand, when he caught a warning glance from Anne, causing him to bite his tongue.

  “Charity,” Anne said, speaking gently but firmly. “Enough now. The bible demands that you be obedient and respectful to your parents.”

  Charity crossed her arms over her chest and just sat there glaring at the both of them.

  This will not do, Wallace thought, barely able to contain himself, knowing that just a week ago, he’d have given the girl a sound beating for such sass. Something will be done, he assured himself. Just not now. I can ill afford more controversy at this time.

  Wallace returned his attention to the food, quickly shoveling a forkful of beans into his mouth before he said something he’d regret. He began to chew only to find the beans crunchy.

  Charity opened her mouth to say something more, and it was at that moment a large bug flew straight down her throat. Wallace, however, missed this, as he was staring at his plate, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. There were little black shapes in his beans, and they were—moving. Beetles! he realized, and spat. He looked to Anne, ready to chastise her for failing to properly sift the beans, but she was staring at Charity.

  Charity let out a strangled cry and stood up, clutching her throat—the very same act she’d put on during the trial.

  “Charity!” Wallace shouted. “I’ve had enough of your games. You’re fooling no one with your charades. You will cease this mockery this instant or I shall beat you into obedience!”

  But Charity didn’t stop; she continued to gag, her face turning red.

  Anne leapt up, knocking over the pitcher of mead as she rushed to her daughter.

  “Damn it!” Wallace cried. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  Charity’s eyes grew wider still, and she pointed and jabbed wildly at something behind Wallace.

  “Enough,” Wallace shouted. “The witch is dead. That show is over. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” came a woman’s voice right behind Wallace.

  Abitha? Wallace wondered, and spun, barely recognizing the feral woman before him. This was not Abitha, couldn’t be. Then he saw her cloven feet and understood, realized that he was seeing her true self, the witch fully revealed.

  He spotted the cutlass in her hand and grabbed the steak knife. He lunged for her, but she was quicker and sidestepped, sending him sprawling to the floor, losing the knife. Before he could even get a knee up, she was on him, hacking repeatedly into the back of first one leg, then the other. The blade cutting deep into the muscles and tendons behind his knees.

  Wallace let out a howl, tried to roll away, and she drove her hooved foot into the back of his elbow. There came a dreadful crack and his arm dangled, broken and useless. He reached for the knife, and her foot, her terrible cloven foot, landed on his splayed hand, stomping it over and over again, the bones snapping and popping. She didn’t stop, not until his hand was nothing but a mangled lump of flesh.

  Wallace screamed and bawled, unable to even crawl away, his limbs all but useless. And through the tears he saw it, the beast, the Devil himself walk right in through his front door, a tomahawk in his hand. The Devil stepped over him, plucked up the leg of goat, sat down, and began to gnaw on it.

  Anne thrust herself between the witch and Charity, but Charity was still gagging, her face turning purple. Abitha walked calmly over to her.

  “No!” Anne pleaded. “Please, not my daughter.”

  Abitha knocked her aside and grabbed Charity by the neck. “You are a liar, Charity Williams,” Abitha hissed, and snatched hold of her tongue, pinching it between her long-clawed fingers. Blood began to flow. “Should I tear your lying tongue from your mouth?”

  “I beg you, no!” Anne cried out.

&n
bsp; Abitha reached into Charity’s mouth, deep into her throat, and plucked out a large beetle, tossing it aside.

  Charity let out a loud gasp, coughing and gagging as she sucked air back into her lungs.

  Abitha shoved her against the wall and Charity crumpled to the floor, clutching her throat, heaving, trying to catch her breath.

  Wallace watched helpless as Abitha pointed her cutlass at Charity. “The Devil has come for his due.”

  Anne crawled to the girl’s side, cradled her. “No, no more! Please. I beg of you!”

  Abitha pointed to Samson. “Look, Charity, look what your lies have brought into your home.”

  Charity began to bawl.

  “I’ll not kill you this day, child. That would be too easy.” And with that, Abitha set the blade to the girl’s forehead and began to saw.

  Charity screamed as Abitha slowly carved two deeps cuts across her forehead, forming a bloody L.

  “L is for the Little Liar.”

  The girl wailed as the blood ran down her face.

  “I want you to live knowing what is waiting you at the end of your life. This scar will always remind you that there is no redemption, not for you, child. The Devil, old Slewfoot himself, has already claimed you for his own. If you do not believe me, just ask him.” She inclined her head toward Samson.

  Samson stopped eating for a moment and grinned. “Yes, yes, you are indeed mine, child.”

  “No!” Charity sputtered between sobs. “Mother, Father … save me!”

  “There is no saving you, Charity Williams. You are damned. Now leave here, both of you!” Abitha banged the side of her cutlass against the post once, the noise resounding like a gong. “I’ll not tell you again.”

  Anne and her daughter scrambled to their feet, rushing for the door, leaping right over Wallace in their haste to flee.

  “Wait!” Wallace cried, then screamed. “Stop, do not leave me here! Please … do not leave me!” But they were gone, and if he could’ve looked out the door, he would’ve seen them running away as fast as they could without so much as a glance back.